He was not expecting to be welcomed back in the form of open embraces, but neither was he prepared to be instantly seized and dragged-again-into Melkor's halls and thrown there with even more disregard than before.
For a long time, he sat on that dungeon floor with his back to the wall. The shackles next to him were occupied by only skeletal remains, some pieces still held firmly in place inside the restraints. A narrow opening near the ceiling offered a window into the floor above, where orcs hobbled back and forth in droves.
The Maia was observing all this when the door to the prison opened halfway and Satarno stepped inside. He shut the door at his back and quietly moved further into the room, smiling with relief when he saw Mairon.
The latter's eyes lit up and he tried to jump to his feet, struggling with the chains pulling him down.
"My dear friend! It is thanks to you that I am here again."
Satarno gave a weak laugh. "Is that really a good thing? You were not doing so badly on your own."
Mairon eagerly clasped his arm with a grin. "Tell me all that has occurred here in my absence."
"Haven't you heard the rumors? Melkor is being challenged by an army from the West. He's sent out spies to learn what they can."
"Spies? I had seen an army departing as I arrived."
"Well, yes, there is always an army on reserve in case the spies are inadequate."
"Take me to him. I can advise him best in these matters," he urged.
"I cannot," he sadly confessed. "Melkor has ordered you to remain here for now." Satarno stepped forward and placed a hand on his shoulder. "Your loyalty to Melkor is still new. You do not fear him as much as you should, nor detest him for it."
Mairon shook his head, not understanding. "Do I fear the one who laid waste to the Two Trees like he did the Lamps, who has the upper hand against the Valar even on his own? Absolutely! But it would be futile to contrive against him, when we could accomplish so much with his power!"
Satarno's expression turned solemn, again to Mairon's confusion. "His seeds are germinating within you, and you are helpless to fight it, just as it always is."
"Why do you speak this way?" Mairon demanded. "What is ailing you, Satarno?"
The emotion left his eyes, and his friend seemed to return to his normal self. "Never mind. I must go before someone finds me here."
The Maia hurried out. Mairon went to sit down and continue counting the passing orc feet to distract himself. More time elapsed after Satarno had gone, until a door opened with such force that the walls quaked from the impact. A flurry of fire and shadow burst inside.
The Balrog was making his way through the dungeon when he suddenly paused, noticing Mairon with something resembling a smile.
"You are a spy then?" His voice cut deep into the rock walls of the prison and the floor shook as he took a few steps closer. "Do you know what we do to spies?"
Mairon glanced at the whip the Balrog was holding askew from his body, perhaps due to the line of flames emanating from it.
Gothmog noticed, and his smile grew. "Perhaps I will be the one to torture you."
"That seems to give you pleasure," Mairon observed.
"Indeed, it does."
"I am highly doubtful that this fortress would still be standing if not for me," the Maia said in a low voice, yet still loud enough to be heard.
Gothmog turned back around. "What was that? You are not idolized here, Admirable. I know you cannot last long without constant praise."
Mairon squinted at him. "Did Melkor tell you that?"
"He would not need to. I know you."
"I would argue you do not."
"I know you must be quite insolent to get thrown off a mountain and subsequently disowned. No other Maia has received the pleasure of getting thrown out and yet..." he puffed smoke out of his nostrils, "you have the nerve to return."
"I was called back," Mairon informed him.
"You may possess the lord's favor now, through some form of deception, but it will not last- neither will whatever use he has of you."
"Those are confident words you speak. But I don't believe you possess half of the confidence you portray in your own capabilities, much less in mine."
More smoke rolled out of the Balrog's nose as he approached him, sword in hand. "I hope you can back up those biting insults, craftsman."
Mairon watched the sword carefully. "If the need ever arose, yes."
A figure in a long cape entered the dungeon and came to stand in front of where Gothmog was about to crack down his whip, and Mairon was pulling on his restraints to try to fight back.
"Stop, my friends," the messenger of Melkor bade them in his pleasant voice, with his constant, exaggerated smile that resembled a mask. "Lord Melkor wishes to see you both in his throne room."
"Your timing is impeccable, Langon. I was quite close to lashing this unfortunate wretch into several pieces to feed to Melkor's beasts," Gothmog said.
"That is very inconsiderate and most certainly not something we do here," the messenger scolded.
Mairon searched the servant's words for traces of sarcasm, but he found none. Langon seemed to firmly believe what he was saying.
Rather than taunt him, Gothmog immediately obeyed his command and started heading for the throne room.
Langon held out his hand, and the bonds around Mairon's wrists and ankles loosened enough to allow him to free himself.
"Forgive these unpleasant circumstances," the messenger apologized to him. "I assure you, the lord holds no ill will towards you."
Mairon cast him a wary glance as he trailed after Gothmog, keeping a good distance between himself and the Balrog's flaming whip.
"Who is that of Melkor's servants?" he asked the captain.
"That is the emissary Melkor once used to speak through when he had dealings with the Valar," Gothmog answered. "Thus, he can only ever behave pleasantly, so the Valar will never suspect Melkor's real intentions."
"Clever."
"Aye, clever and very dangerous, for he contains some of Melkor's oldest power." He smiled sadistically. "They say he was once a normal spirit, but Melkor so misshaped his face and filled him with his being that he essentially became a walking puppet, with only a remnant of a will of his own." Gothmog shook his head in fake sympathy. "A true, living mockery of the superficial Valar. Needless to say, Langon was not a success, and he only caused the Valar to fear Melkor all the more."
After he finished speaking, Gothmog slammed a door in his face, leaving Mairon alone in front of the entrance sealing off Melkor's quarters from the rest of the halls. The Maia paused to listen. Strangely, it seemed quieter than usual, and Mairon was unsure what to do. Knock? Call out? Open it?
Although the last option would probably end with brutal consequences...but surely Melkor knew of his presence.
Fortunately, he didn't have to decide. The doors swiftly opened and Mairon was ushered in by two attendees and led over to where Melkor sat eagerly at the end of his seat, surrounded by his captains and advisors.
He went to bow, but Melkor hastily ordered him up again, too impatient for formalities.
"What is this about compensation?! Who are you, to speak so high and mighty?" the Vala shouted.
"I-" he started to explain, but Melkor waved his words away before he could speak them.
"No matter. I am too distracted by current matters to dwell on punishing you. I'm sure you have heard the war trumpet from the west and know of the new threat towards me."
"My lord, do you think it is the Valar?" he wondered.
"If so, I am not very concerned, as the strength of Oromë's horn has most certainly decreased."
Mairon raised a brow. "Then Elves? But why would-" His words trailed off as he slowly looked to the Silmarils in Melkor's crown.
Melkor frowned when he noticed him staring. "Why are you looking at my gems?"
"Was it necessary to take those, my lord?"
"Yes, it was. I do not often refuse gifts that are inspired by me."
"I find it likely they might have come to reclaim them," he said.
Melkor stared at him for a long time. "What?"
"The gems. I think the Noldor might want those back."
"But I am not offering."
"And hence the war trumpet, my lord."
"My lord, the spies have returned," Gothmog announced on a sudden, entering the room. "They say the Noldor are demanding the Silmarils."
"Why would they do that?" one of the Balrogs asked, puzzled. "They gave you the Silmarils, my lord."
Melkor shot him an annoyed glance, and Gothmog glared.
"Really?" the latter asked him. "How long did you plan on believing that?"
"Tell them I asked, 'What is a Silmaril?'," Melkor replied in an unbothered voice, fixing his crown.
Gothmog set his hands at his hips and skeptically regarded the spy that had accompanied him to the throne. "Is this a trick of some kind? Why would hundreds of Elves risk their lives crossing the Helcaraxë for three gems?"
Melkor lifted his hands in a shrug.
"They are quite insistent, my lord," the spy said. "Should we say that you have destroyed them?"
"They won't believe that. Say I have misplaced them."
The spy started to leave with the message, but Gothmog spoke up:
"Or, perhaps we should forget negotiations entirely and just kill all of them. Then our whole problem is solved."
"Hmm…" Melkor broke into a grin. "Once again, Gothmog, you have come up with a great idea."
After the Vala had given the go-ahead to attack the Noldor, and his Maiar had all gone off to prepare, Mairon was left alone with Melkor.
He patiently waited for the strong rebuke he knew was coming, his head bowed in acceptance. The Vala was clearly watching him from what he could see in his peripheral vision, and he could feel the weight of his thoughts, but the Maia did not meet his gaze. A long silence passed.
"Gorthaur, hmm? The Sindar have a name for you. It would seem I'm not the only one with multiple titles." Melkor stirred a little in his chair. "How did you know where the battle was to take place? Did you glean that from my spies again?"
"No, not from spies. I did my own observations this time."
Unexpectedly, the Vala descended the stairs leading from his throne and crossed into the hall, stopping in front of a table of liquid containers. He picked up a pitcher and poured some dark, bubbling concoction into a cup and offered it to Mairon.
The Maia took it, but he regarded the liquid with uncertainty.
Melkor found his reaction amusing. "Do you not trust what I give you?"
As if it were a challenge, he tilted his head back and downed the entire drink before handing the empty vessel back to the Vala.
"That is more like the fearless Maia I know." He took some for himself and with a swish of his cape, crossed to the far wall. His eyes glanced over the series of images carved there, which resembled a perversion of Vairë's woven tapestries of events.
Mairon followed him halfway and stood in the center of the room. The drink had been much stronger than the mead he was used to, and it took much just to stay on his feet. Everything in the room was spinning except for the Vala, who somehow remained unaffected. Mairon's head bobbed up and down as he struggled to stay balanced. Every inch of him was burning from the inside-out.
Melkor turned aside, the pale silhouette of his face a sharp contrast to the black shadow extending from his back. He ran his finger along the rim of his cup. "I know that Fëanor is behind this whole escapade, for who else would be so senseless as to challenge me directly? He will arrive at the gates soon. I have foreseen it." His eyes darkened even more, becoming a black void to all except the Vala himself, who could penetrate it. "And he will die."
The Maia's words came out slow, despite his efforts. "Why are you telling me this, my lord?"
"I think you can guess what I need from you. You have always understood Elves better than I do. Their customs and ways make no sense to me. But you once waited on their every whim and need. So, you will be the one to help me crush them. Do you understand?"
"Yes, my lord."
Melkor closed his eyes and tilted his face up, breathing in deeply as if he were completely at ease. "Tell me, how does it feel?"
"How does what feel?" Mairon answered, trying to hide the adverse reaction he was having.
"Knowing you will be the most powerful of the Maiar under my instruction. Every piece of lore I have ever passed down to my most trusted confidants will be given to you, so long as you continue to do my bidding."
The Maia's face became flushed. "Honored, my lord."
The dark Vala smiled. "You have pleased me, and hence why I am offering you a second chance." He seemed to think to himself for a moment. "Where did you acquire your army?"
"There are former servants of yours scattered throughout the forests of Beleriand under no kind of leadership," Mairon said.
"Oh, yes. Many of my servants roam outside the walls of this fortress, some I let out on purpose so that they may wreak havoc, and others who manage to escape, but not against my will, for they too bring the same effect. You have done well to round them up." Melkor clenched his hand and immediately grimaced in pain, but he held out his palm and waved to cover it up. "Go, leave me. Begin on your task."
Mairon bowed his head and turned to leave, but before going out the door he cast a final glance over his shoulder and spied the Vala removing one of his gloves, revealing the charred skin underneath.
That substance Melkor had given him must have been some Valarin drink, or something else not intended for his consumption. Once he stepped out of the fortress, the Maia collapsed into the snow, in the hopes that it would subside the burning sensation. It must have worked, or else the cold numbed the pain enough to allow him to stand.
A small party of riders were out on the plain. Mairon started walking towards them. He breathed in the familiar scent of blood and leather and recognized one among their number who stood out to him.
Taryamo finished adjusting the saddlebags on his Warg and then greeted Mairon with a stoic expression. "You're back," he said casually, as if not much time had elapsed since they had last seen each other. "Will you be accompanying us to visit the Noldor?" he asked, placing strange emphasis on the word "visit".
After Mairon gave him a nod, the other Maia motioned to an assistant, who led over his gray Warg and handed it to its usual rider.
"I don't know why all this conflict is over some gemstones," the huntsman commented, echoing Mairon's same thoughts. Why did the Vala need to possess something that constantly pained him?
As he took the leash to use as a rein, Taryamo glanced at his frostbitten fingers and part of his face yet made no comment. Only as they mounted their beasts for departure did he address Mairon directly.
"There is an extra cloak in there," Taryamo said, indicating to the saddlebags on the other Maia's Warg.
The party traveled through snow and arid mountain valleys as the sky gradually cleared of the black smoke issuing from Angband. This was the furthest west Mairon had been since he crossed the sea from Aman.
Taryamo and his hunters appeared to be following tracks in the deep snow. So keen was their ability that only once in this entire expedition had they had to change course.
At the edge of a well-fortified valley below the Helcaraxë, the party drew to a gradual halt. In a narrow cleft between two mountains, the Maiar gazed down over the encampment. Smoke and ash covered the air, and tents were set up in the central circle of the valley. Tall, armored Elves stood around this same circle, wielding long swords and square shields to keep away the droves of orcs charging towards them.
"It looks like we've come late to the festivities," Taryamo joked.
As he watched, Mairon became nervous. Would they recognize him? He raised the hood on his cloak to conceal most of his face and remained at the back of the group.
The riders came down the mountain slopes and crashed into the host of orcs, equipping their bows and shooting at the line of Noldorin defense.
On his left, Mairon watched in shock as not one, but three arrows simultaneously took down a sturdy orc, and every other orc standing nearby toppled over soon after. An arrow grazed his shoulder as it shot past, and the Maia decided to leave that area.
As he was riding away, however, his Warg was slain by a stray arrow and the Maia fell off, jumping to his feet just in time to meet the Noldo rushing towards him with a sword. Mairon was surprised at the amount of strength the Elf met him with, and Mairon had to push back with his hands, having no weapon.
As the Noldo pressed harder against him, the Maia suddenly released his grip and stepped aside. The Noldo stumbled onto the ground, and Mairon bent to pick up a fallen sword. He turned and plunged the blade into the other's back, then removed the bloodied sword and tossed it on the ground.
"I'm sorry," he told the Elf, as if the corpse would hear him.
Mairon searched for the hunters, and found them closed into a tight circle, surrounded by a wall of steel swords. He shoved his way through the only gap behind them.
Several of their Wargs had been shot with arrows, dripping their crimson blood in the snow. The Maiar were shooting arrows into the openings of their enemies' helmets.
"Why are they insane?!" Taryamo cried. "What are they so angry for?"
"We need to retreat," Mairon told him. He grabbed hold of one of the Noldor's swords and directed the sharp end back at its wielder.
The huntsman looked indecisive. He surveyed the host of Noldor growing larger as more swarmed to surround them, the wounds of his Warg, the depletion of his arrows.
"Alright," he reluctantly agreed, backing up his Warg. The others picked up on his signal and forced their way through the line of Noldor to escape via the mountain pass. Taryamo offered his hand to Mairon.
"Come, jump on!"
"I will stay," he told him. "My errand is not complete."
The huntsman raised his brows, taken aback by the refusal, but he galloped on with the others to escape the pursuing arrows.
Mairon used their exit as a distraction to climb up the side of the mountain until he was high enough to avoid detection from below. Once the rancorous shouting and battle cries lessened, the Maia came out on the other side of the mountain chain. Below him, the Maiarin riders made haste through upper Beleriand, followed by a handful of surviving orcs.
In the opposite direction, another host of orcs was arriving as backup from the south. Squinting for a closer view, Mairon recognized several of their captains, as well as Boldog at the lead, just now returning from the battle with the Sindar. The Noldorin forces were gaining on the orcs, while the second host of orcs was suddenly attacked by another faction of Elves that had split off from the main army.
The odds did not look good- but the battle was not his concern, so Mairon returned to the valley floor, keeping a good distance away from the camp of the Noldor.
There were mostly women and children remaining, with a small host left to guard them. Still, he did not want to alert them to his presence. He removed his visible appearance and walked in between the guards who were patrolling the perimeter of the camp, lest they detect any kind of unusual presence.
Mairon glanced within each of the tents. To his surprise, many of them contained paraphernalia related to the gods, and the greatest were shrines dedicated to Aulë. Surely, the Valar would never have approved of a mass embarkment to exact revenge on Melkor.
He paused when he heard soft weeping from a nearby tent, and the Maia quietly approached the entrance to listen.
"I want to go home!" a young girl cried. "I hate it here."
"We can never go home," a boy answered her. "Not after killing so many Teleri. The Valar will never let us return to Aman."
Mairon's eyes widened. The greatest effects of Melkor's influence had somehow occurred in his absence! How potent and insidious must his works have been on the Noldor to cause them to murder their own brethren.
The girl continued to cry. "I want Mother! When is she coming?"
"She will come," her brother assured her. "Lord Fingolfin will find a way to us."
So, this was not the only host- there were more Elves arriving soon. Yet he could not stop thinking of how pleased Melkor would be to hear of this breach of friendship between the Noldor and Teleri! He almost laughed as he imagined the Vala's delight. And why had Fingolfin not arrived with Fëanor's host? Did ill relations still dominate Finwë's sons?
It was all too easy. He wanted to thank the crying girl and her brother for their generous sharing of knowledge. But instead he continued weaving among the hundreds of tents until he found the one he was looking for. Fëanor could have made it much less obvious which one was his, if he had left out the giant portrait of his father over his writing table.
Mairon pulled out the chair and sat while flipping through the scrolls of parchment. Anyone as arrogant as Fëanor had to keep records of everything he did, and after some more perusing he finally found it. The Noldo was still using Valarin time to keep track of his entries, so the Maia followed them in chronological order. Silmarils this, Finwë that, the audacity of Morgoth this. Fëanor's hatred almost rivalled Melkor's, and his words imitated the Vala's like he was his greatest enemy but his most adamant admirer at the same time. There was a thin line between love and hate, after all.
For some time Mairon stayed among the camp, learning whatever he could. But eventually, out of desire to know more of the progress of the battle, he started to wander north of Mithrim. The majority of fighting had moved farther east, but there were a few skirmishes here and there along Ered Wethrin between isolated bands of orcs and Noldor.
Temporary camps were set up to hold out against the forces of Angband. Outside one of them, a band of orcs that had escaped the onslaught of the Noldor were seeking refuge in the mountainside. When they spotted Mairon crossing the valley below them, the orcs ran out and eagerly surrounded the Maia.
"Lord Mairon!" they greeted. "Have you come to lead us?"
"How is the battle progressing?" he inquired of them.
"Badly, from what we've experienced. We are the only survivors from our host."
Mairon glanced over at the distant Noldorin camp. It did not appear heavily guarded. Perhaps he should do his part to try to turn the tides. "Hmm. Alright, I will lead you in an ambush against this camp. Follow me."
Grateful for their change in fortune, the orcs came over and hid behind a large area of brush at Mairon's command. They crouched and waited for any who happened to pass by from the direction of the camp.
After remaining in this position for an hour or two, they were rewarded with footsteps approaching from the opposite side of the brush. There was a Noldo leading a line of horses, and the herd sensed the presence of orcs before he did. Vainly he sought to console them until his own fear overtook him as orcs rushed out from their place of hiding.
The horses were now worked into a frenzy, and all ran off in different directions save one, a mare with a sleek black coat that stood out from the rest. She kicked the assailants with her powerful legs, eyes gleaming viciously.
"Muilë!" the Noldo tried calling to her, but he turned and fled back to the camp.
When all the orcs lay unconscious and badly injured at her feet, the black horse snorted in triumph and raised her head high. Mairon stood back and watched, impressed.
"I hope you are pleased," he told her. "Those were my only soldiers."
She turned her head to study him as he warily approached with his hands held out where she could see.
"You must have come from Valinor," he told her. "Although you possess a devious side, I see."
He was now close enough that he could see his own reflection in her clear brown eyes. She did not move as he reached out and lightly touched her neck and patted it down the side.
"Is your name Muilë?"
She leaned forward and sniffed his face.
"Will you let me ride you?" he asked, sliding his hand towards her back.
She did not protest, so he quietly moved beside her and pressed down on her back, slowly lifting the left side of his body over her right flank.
He pulled the rest of himself up and sat firmly upon Muilë, and with a laugh he said, "I think I have found my horse."
It was then that a light glinted within her eyes as if she were smiling, and suddenly she reared back on her hind legs. Her passenger would have slid to the ground had he not reached up and grabbed her mane and clung to it from the air.
Muilë came crashing back to the ground with such force that Mairon was painfully jolted up and down.
"I suppose I am lucky that you let me on at all," he said, trying to catch his breath.
He repositioned himself where a saddle would be and kicked at her girth.
She didn't move.
He kicked harder, eliciting no response.
"Do I have to speak an Elvish word?" he demanded impatiently.
He had hardly finished his sentence when she flew forward. He let out a startled cry and was forced to lay parallel to avoid getting knocked off from air resistance.
For such was her speed: no other horse in Valinor galloped quite like she did. She was so aerodynamic that the blast of wind in Mairon's face seemed to bother her not.
Only the ground was visible to him. The rocky terrain was changing to lush grass. She was running the opposite way from Hithlum, into the plains of Beleriand.
When his head felt not so heavy, he was able to sit up partially and gaze around him. Trees were passing them by in a blur. The woods were devoid of Elves, as though Muilë were purposely avoiding them.
"Where do you think you're taking me?" he shouted at her over the wind.
Mairon drove his leg into her side and tried to turn the horse around. But Muilë would not be waylaid, and she continued to follow her own course through Beleriand.
He scowled. "Go to Dor Daedeloth!"
Effortlessly, she spun around and went back the other way, towards the north.
As the forest gave way to open terrain, a large host of Noldor and a depleted army of orcs appeared at a camp in the center of Ard-Galen. Muilë was headed towards the two clashing forces with no sign of stopping. Now Mairon thought it safer to jump off a running horse than to run through that battle, but he decided that at her speed they might possibly make it past.
He covered his form and flattened himself against Muilë's back, blinded but paying close attention to his surroundings. As they neared the camp, he heard the unmistakable flapping of flags in the wind and metal grating against metal. He peered out from his cover, expecting to already be surrounded, but the soldiers on both sides did not pause from their fighting, and none looked in his direction, as if both horse and rider were invisible.
Well, that would certainly prove useful.
Mairon finally raised his head once they were safe in the empty plains below Angband. Muilë came to a halt once the fortress was visible up ahead.
"Melkor will not want you there," Mairon told her, thinking over possible places to keep her.
She snorted dismissively at the name.
"You will do well to respect the Lord of Arda," he scolded.
The horse gave a toss of her head, and it appeared that she rolled her eyes.
Mairon smiled. "Yes, that is my reaction as well sometimes." He urged her on. "Come, I will find a place for you."
She refused to budge.
"Go to Angband!" he ordered.
Muilë dug her hooves into the ground and shook her head.
Mairon groaned in frustration. "You are quite the pain." He dismounted and looked around for something to serve as a lead, but he resorted to tearing his own tunic and wrapping the cloth around her head.
He tugged her forward, but she simply slipped her head out from the noose. He placed it over again and tightened the length, then tried to get her to follow.
Muilë sat down and refused to budge, even as the cloth tore into her neck and attempted to strangle her. At last, Mairon leaned forward and cut it free.
He put his hands on his hips and gave her an exasperated look. "Melkor believes I cannot possibly tame you. I think he is wrong."
She regarded him curiously, flicking an ear at the sound of his voice.
Once she stood up, Mairon climbed atop her back again, looking in the opposite direction from Angband. "Very well. I have another place in mind for you."
